Your prompt for #JusJoJan and Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “ad/add/AD (Anno Domini).” Use one, use ’em all–bonus points if you fit them all into your post. Have fun!
I was having breakfast this morning and our server was a very lovely young lady who was, how should I say, as pretty walking towards me as she was walking away. As I watched her in mute admiration, I realized that she was young enough to be my daughter.
It logically followed that I would take stock of my situation and I concluded that women like her were not realistic but I should make an effort to meet someone.
I composed in my head the AD, in the yet to be determined outlet.
“recently divorced guy, balding, one testicle, on dialysis with no future prospects of success or moving out of my mother’s house seeks…well SHIT…anyone. Note, in exchange for physical intimacy I will be the most grateful motherfucker EVER.”
The prompt for #JusJoJan and Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “art.” Talk about something that’s hanging on your wall. Add a picture, if you’d like. If you have no art on your walls, talk about something in a museum. Have fun!
Something hanging on my wall
There are many items that adorn the
walls around me as I compose this post. I really can’t single one out
for they share a connection. They all make me think of my father.
I am in my favorite place to write, the
finished basement of my mom’s house. Originally purchased as a summer
home, the small chalet was expanded and remodeled into a full house
by the time they retired up here in 2001. It went from “the summer
home”, to “my parents house”, and now that my dad has passed it
is known as “mom’s house.”
Nothing says more about my father than this house. He dedicated time and money he didn’t have to make it perfect. A house that his wife would be proud of (her opinions mattered on every detail in every room), that his kids could bring his grandchildren, and one that he could grow old in. The finished basement was his last accomplishment. I love the entire house, his touches are everywhere. But none so much as this room, it’s my favorite place to be.
As I look around the room the first thing I notice is the curio cabinet. He built it special for mom to put her amazing collection of curios. It is a one of a kind, like him.
My attention is then drawn to the
painting of his favorite view. It is a path in the woods, near here,
that is entirely covered by a perfectly formed canopy of tree
branches. In the summer, it is a cool respite from the heat. In the
fall, it is a panorama of colors. In the winter the bent,
snow-covered branches form a winter paradise. He took a photo of it
once and a friend painted it for him. What a wonderful gift.
Next there is a professional photo of
he and my mother. In happier times. His arm around her with a big,
genuine smile. He loved her so much he didn’t have to say “cheese”.
Her smile speaks volumes also. She doesn’t smile like that anymore.
Her smile now is forced, a result of loss, grief and a steadfast
resolve to not show how much pain she is hiding.
The next wall is a collage of dog
portraits. All spaniels, his favorite. In my life we had 2 Brittany
Springers and 3 Cockers. Like cars, he went with what works and
Spaniels never let him down.
The last thing I see is on the mantle.
A case containing a folded flag that was handed to me at his funeral,
by a sharply dressed soldier on behalf of a grateful nation. He never
talked about his military service, other than where he was stationed.
I will never know much of what he saw. But I know that he
volunteered, during the age of the Draft, and he wouldn’t imagine not
doing his part for the country he loved so dearly.
The rest of the room contains a lot of
cutesy décor, my mother’s touch. Porcelain and wood carved Mallards,
embroidery portraits of puppies and various stuffed versions of
woodland creatures adorn the room. Mom knows how to cutesy up
Still, in this room I just see Dad
everywhere. In the actual sense. I often sleep here, and many times I
have awoke to the sensation that he is in the room.
While unlikely, I wish he was. He completed this room soon before he died. He never got to grow old here, which was his goal. He worked so very hard his entire life and never got to enjoy the spoils. It’s really not fair, but he would be the first person to tell me that life never is. He had working man’s wisdom.
What I wouldn’t give to talk to him for just 5 more minutes. If not in this realm then in the next. Until that somehow happens, I have plenty of reminders. They’re hanging on the wall.
With youth there is an acceptable level of selfishness allowed. As we walk the path of growth we are expected to clamor for what is ours, to find our place and develop our own persona. If life were a glass of water, a younger me would gulp it down, slam the glass on the counter and demand more. Without regard for whether the person next to me is thirsty.
With age I have learned that the person next to me matters. That they may be dehydrated by life. That the contents of their glass won’t satiate them.
I have thankfully learned to sip from my glass, wait to see if my thirst is quenched, and if possible pass the glass so that they might satisfy theirs.
After all, the great “half-full or half-empty” debate is a misnomer. The glass is refillable.